


Estranged

by Akaiberubetto



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childhood Memories, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, POV Second Person, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:54:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26540980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akaiberubetto/pseuds/Akaiberubetto
Summary: An imaginary ending in which Sam is about to die and Dean's heart is broken.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 3





	Estranged

**Author's Note:**

> This short story is an antecedent chapter of my other work "Clarence" which is written in Chinese (not translated to English yet). Both stories are solely based on my imaginations of what would happen at the end of the road. English is not my first language, so if you find any grammar/spelling mistakes in this work, please, you're more than welcome to point it out to me :)

You were confronted with the problem of how to dissuade a person from pursuing his own death. In the past, you could just look into his eyes and ask him to open to you. Naturally that would work; but at that time you were full of vigor and left everyone with the impression of a man who was still fairly young at both his look and his heart. Your hair was always cut short; you wore deep green and grey T-shirts, jeans and military jackets; you more than often gave a smile on your face. Everyone who had met you in person gave you their praises: what a pair of beautiful eyes you have. To be honest, they were wonderful eyes indeed, very much like a cloud of pale-green mist glimmering with golden sparkles; from time to time people would catch a glimpse of this hue in a morning after a rainy night. Now those eyes had not changed a bit in their shape or color, and yet they seemed to become a feature that could only be seen on the face of an old man. Some might thus make a deduction that you had changed, but none of them would be able to figure out the nature of that change; not even you yourself could tell.

But you knew one thing for sure: it had to be done. You must not let him walk into his own death like that, with a tired look on his face which seemed never to fade. In some rare moments he did not look exhausted and void of life, often those moments when he was with Jack, he would talk to him about a slice of life from your past. Sometimes you stood aside and listened: then you feel offended. You realized that he was talking about topics upon which you two argued a lot in your youth, memories that neither you nor him would bring up when you were alone. But now he talked about them with ease. Why would he do that? Did he not bear the same old scars like you? You could not understand. So you left and abandoned them behind. At the end you always left.

Later he left Jack and came upstairs to knock on your door. You opened up, seeing him standing in the hallway, all pale and slender. Once again life had faded from his face. He asked:

“Do you want to go out for a drive?”

He rarely made a request like that. You nodded, because there was nothing you could do but to nod, and replied him: “Wait a second. I have to grab the keys.”

Fifteen minutes later you were out of the bunker. Before you stepped across the threshold you saw Castiel standing amid the shadow of the stairs. He stayed perfectly still as if were staring at a spot on the wall. At that instant of gazing you saw the veil of death is to descend on him soon. And you suddenly realized: he was staring at your brother. He must know what Sam was constantly hiding from you, since beings, human or angel, always think alike on the brim of death. But you decided to bury that thought deep inside, as you did with other thoughts regarding loss and pain. Several moments passed and now you were sitting in the car. You and Sam. you closed the door. A silence followed.

“So,” Quickly, to break the silence, you said. “Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere. I just want to be away from the bunker.”

As usual, the unspoken content behind his words annoyed you. You needed not push him to get the answer; you always knew too well why he wanted to stay away from the bunker and, if possible, from anything that belonged to this world of the living. But you remained silent. There was no need to say anything.

“Fine. Let’s say…how about Sioux Falls? We can go pay Jody a visit. We haven’t seen her for a long time.”

“That’s good.” He said, as if speaking to himself. “I want to see her as well. I miss her.”

That’s a terrible lie. You knew he did not miss her at all.

“Then Sioux Falls it is,” you only said briefly. “just don’t regret it later.”

He smiled; it must have taken him a great effort to force a smile like that. But he had no desire to disappoint you: he thought you were saying those things to rouse his spirit. If he were to turn around and scrutinize your face, he would realize his mistake in an instant. Now that instant had passed; and he did not turn his head.

When night fell you drove near a lake and parked the car on the shore; you were still several hundred miles away from the border of South Dakota. Once out of the car, you took a walk around, inspecting the area: you were alone, surrounded only by the sound of water and the shadow of silent trees. You heard footsteps approaching from behind; he was doing the same thing.

“All clear.” He reported. “Shall we stay here tonight?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Okay.”

He was about to leave. You cast a look down on the lake and knew what will happen next. To defer the inevitable, you spoke up:

“Do you remember that time when Dad took us to a lake like this and taught you how to fish?”

He only shrugged. You considered for a moment that it was all he would give for an answer, but he said at length:

“Yes. Of course I remember. We have to sleep in the car, cuddling up on the backseat.”

“Right.” You said, somewhat bitterly. “And you tried to kick me over at least ten times that night. But it’s still a good memory for me.”

What else could you tell him? Could you walk over and start to beg him not to die? Maybe you should take him in your arms first. Maybe you should stroke his hair and kiss him on the forehead, or cheek, or lips; that did not make much difference. But instead you stood there, bowed your head and breathed. Yes, you breathed; that was the only thing you dared to do now.

“Well, I suppose so. You always enjoyed yourself much when dad was around.”

“It’s not about dad.”

He didn’t ask why. After a moment he spoke again:

“Do you want to know what I was thinking for the past moment?”

You had as much desire to know as you had to face him.

“What?”

“I was thinking about that time we fought.”

“We fought plenty.”

“No, I’m not talking about those fights. I’m talking about that one in the hotel room, right before I decided to kill Lilith. That’s the first time you called me a monster, I mean, for real. And I hit you in response.”

“You know I didn’t mean that.”

“I think you did.” He said with an unnerving calmness. “But it does not matter anymore. The point is, when I look back at that night, something begins to distress me in a way that it never did before. First I thought it was because I felt guilty; but I always feel guilty. Then I began to recall more details: the way you swung your fist, the glittering of that silver ring on your right hand–finally I found the answer. Or at least I told myself I did. Do you remember what I said to you before I left?”

“I remember,” You replied. “that you said I didn’t understand you.”

“That’s the first part.” He said quietly, as if giving utterance to his memory. “This is what I remember myself said: you don’t know me. You never did and you never will. Do you still think I was wrong now?”

You had nothing to say. For a moment you stayed silent like that, standing at either side of the Impala. A series of frictional sound followed; he adjusted his position and sat on the car hood. You turned around and, across the pale blue light filtered through leaves, saw his figure in contrast to the illuminated background. How he had changed, you thought. In the past you were always able to clearly see his face and analyze his emotions. You knew what he wanted to say by simply looking at the way he bit his lips and nodded his head. That night when he left, before he punched you in the face, you looked into his eyes and instantly knew that he was about to cry.

“And the trials, I remember them all. When I was in the chapel, and I was ready to give Crowley the last shot, you barged through that door and asked me to stop, or otherwise I would die. I didn’t want to stop. To die for the sake of those trials was one of the best chances I ever had in my life. But you appeared, and I knew my chance had lost.”

“Well,” you understood. “so you are now blaming me for not let you die at thirty.”

“I didn’t say that. I just want you to know that I once clung to you for my life; that you are the only reason I live every day since that moment. But please don’t get me wrong; I don’t blame you. Now, back to the question: do you think you know me?”

“If I don’t know you, then who else would possibly do?”

“I’ve thought about that too. I don’t know what I was thinking…maybe after all I still want to be understood. But you have to know, Dean, all these years I’ve been trying, to prove myself wrong and you right. And every time I look back at that night, I always have this terrible feeling that the faith I had in you shall be shattered one day.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that. We can still find a way…”

He interrupted you.

“It isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

Of which one was he talking about? His loss of faith in you, or his death?

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” You said dryly. “It’s almost midnight. We should have some rest.”

Once again he smiled. You could not see his face which was veiled by the shadow; but you knew that he just now smiled, with a sort of irony that one could easily mistake for hatred. If he were a little more selfish he would probably laugh. He must think you were fooling yourself.

“Alright.” He said tenderly. You heard him get up from the hood and open the door. “Goodnight, Dean.”

And now you must sleep. Four hours later you would wake up, sick with inexplicable anger and agony. Then you would have to drive the remained two hundred miles towards South Dakota. By then he would be riding the shotgun, listening to the music you picked and even talk to you from time to time. Everything would seem exactly as normal as your past fifteen years had ever been. If some backpacker wandered by and saw through the window inside, he would think that he has seen two brothers going on a road trip; he might even recall his own childhood and his for-so-long estranged brother. What he did not know was that all these would be true if he had seen this car every other time in the past fifteen years, but now they were nothing but presumptuous imaginations. For the past one and a half decades you had been having a road trip. And tomorrow you would arrive in Sioux Falls. There would be your final stop: the end of the road.

And then you remembered, once more, that time when John took you to a lake. That lake was much bigger than this one, lying blue like a mirror among a land of trees and ferns. You were eleven or twelve, and Sam was four years younger than you. John taught him how to fix worms to the hook as bait, how to hold the fishing rod correctly and when to set hook. You remembered he was extraordinarily excited that day; but you were disinterested in fishing. The only thing you had in mind at that time was whether you could go on the next hunting trip with John. When night came on John told him to return to the car and sleep alongside you on the backseat. He was unwilling to do so.

“But it is uncomfortable.” He complained.

John informed him: there was no other place for him to stay the night. So he came to you, still a little bit upset. He said bluntly: I don’t want to sleep with you. And you replied: Neither do I. At a moment like that you realized that you remembered it all; behind you Sam leaned against the seat, his eyes shut close. In an instant of relief you thought he has fallen asleep and was naturally unconscious of your uneasiness, but then you heard him ask:

“Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Of course. What is that?”

He did not open his eyes.

“Would you try not to forget something that no longer exists?”

“It depends.”

“And if that thing once means a lot to you? Would you at least try to remember, even if it would be very painful?”

“I think that’s why I must remember.”

“I suppose you do.” He said after a while. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“What for?”

You felt the weight of his gaze pressuring on your shoulder. But you dared not turn around to meet his eyes. Only now you realized he did not ask you out to let you persuade him; he did so only to make sure you lose.

“For everything.” He replied, with the gentleness of a man who was talking to someone he knew he was about to leave soon. “Because I want you to remember, and I know you always remember; it must be torture for you.”

2020.9.


End file.
